Buttons
by theoneshotter
Summary: A not-so-innocent Italian, a Roman statuesque German, and a love that will never die. WARNING: Yaoi, pg-13, Holocaust mention, all that jazz.


Italy Veneziano jolted awake for the fifth time in the past two hours. Greece's voice had a soothing rhythm that made it impossible to keep his eyes open. He turned to apologize to Germany, only to find him snoring softly, head cradled in his arms. Oh, so he hadn't woken Italy up. Italy smiled, reaching over to gently slip his lover's reading glasses off. He slid the papers out from under his folded arms, setting to the side so they wouldn't get drooled on.

Germany had been working extra hard recently, his economy had taken a sudden nosedive in the last few months. Many nights, Italy had awoken to a cold, empty bed.

On one such night, he crept downstairs, bare feet padding quietly across the floor. Germany's office door was closed, with a flood of yellow light spilling out through the crack at the bottom. Pushing the door open, which was perfectly oiled so it didn't squeak and wake anyone, Italy found Germany hunched over his desk, glasses slipping down his strong nose, eyebrows furrowed, wrinkles like cracks in the marble of his forehead. He didn't even look up as Italy tiptoed across the floor and around the car-sized desk blanketed with papers like a freshly fallen snow.

Italy touched Germany's shoulder with a fairy's touch, and Germany jolted as if shocked.

"Italy!? What the hell are you doing here?" He said in a voice that was a few notches too loud. The lamplight threw strong shadows in his face, highlighting the bruised skin under his eyes.

"Come back to bed, Germany," Italy cooed. He ran a hand through Germany's unkempt hair, sweeping the stray strands out of his blue eyes.

"I've got to finish this, Italia." Germany said huskily, fighting the quaver of exhaustion in his voice.

"You're not going to get anything done if you're tired, _amore_," Italy murmured, gently removing the pen from Germany's clenched hand.

Germany let out a shaky sigh. He looked at Italy for the first time since had had entered the office. "I-Italy!" He exclaimed suddenly.

"Yeah?" Italy answered, straightening Germany's rumpled collar.

"You're naked!" Germany cried, reaching to a cabinet behind him and pulled out the fuzzy blanket Italy used for siestas in Germany's office.

Germany quickly and efficiently wrapped the blanket around his lover, blushing furiously. "Stupid Italy, you're going to get sick!"

Italy crawled into his lap, nuzzling his head against Germany's strong shoulder. "You're so sweet Germany…" he muttered, his voice lost in the blanket.

Germany sighed again. It was impossible to continue working with Italy in his way. He made sure the blanked was securely wrapped around the Italian, and lifted him up gently. Italy cuddled closer to Germany's sculpted chest, toying with the buttons on his partially opened shirt.

Germany carried him, bridal style, up the stairs. Halfway up, he looked down at the Italian in his arms.

"What are you doing?" He asked gruffly. Italy stopped unbuttoning and looked up innocently.

"What are you talking about?" He asked, his lower lip pushing out in a pout that Germany found extremely adorable.

"Stop unbuttoning my shirt!"

"I'm not unbuttoning your shirt!" Italy protested. Germany grunted and continued up the stairs. Reaching the bedroom, he deposited Italy on the bed, tucked the blankets around him, and made to go back to his office.

"Nooooo," Italy whined, grabbing his shirttails. "Don't leave me~"

Germany gently detached Italy's hands from the back of his shirt. Italy tugged on his arm with surprising force. From the light in the hall, Germany could see tears gathering in his huge brown eyes. _Gott _he hated seeing Italy cry.

"_Ja, ja, _I'll stay." Germany said. He sank down onto the bed. Italy immediately clutched his hand in a death grip.

After a few minutes of slowly losing feeling in his hand, he spoke again. "Italy, I'll get in trouble if I don't finish that paperwork."

Italy pulled him onto the bed, rolling on top of him and straddling him. In the dim light, his lean, naked form seemed almost elven.

"Italy-" Germany began. Italy fixed a long-fingered hand over his mouth, cutting him off.

"Don't speak, _amore_." Italy removed the hand, replacing it with his lips. He felt Germany relax under him, and Italy slipped his hands over Germany's shoulders, slipping his shirt down to his waist. He moved to undo the last three buttons, but Germany beat him to it, ripping the shirt open and sending buttons flying. Italy grinned, working his mouth against Germany's firm, if slightly thin, lips.

Germany's hands gripped Italy's hips, his thumbs digging into his lover's hipbones.

They made love like rebellious teenagers that night. Germany finally rolled onto his back, chest heaving with his ragged breaths. Italy brushed a soft hand through his hair, pushing it off his lover's forehead.

"_Grazie, amore,_" he murmured. Germany's eyes were already slipping closed, his breaths evening out into the deep rhythm of sleep. "Hm, you were tired, weren't you?" Italy mused, kissing him lightly on the nose. Germany's face scrunched up in his sleep as he wriggled his nose. Italy smiled. He traced the German's bicepts, pale, smooth, and Roman statue-like in the moonlight.

He walked his fingers up to Germany's collarbone, resting them in the little hollow at the base of his neck. His pulse, which moments before had been pounding a frantic rhythm into Italy's back, was slow and calm, jumping steadily against Italy's fingers like Germany pumped iron every morning. Up, down; up, down. Constant, like his love for Italy.

After all the uncertainty, the terror of the black death, wars against ideas, corrupted popes and bosses who were supposed to be there for him but never were, the reliability of Germany's love was comforting. It was something he could rely on.

The painful memories of the wars still followed them, imbedded in the fabric of their lives. Sometimes Germany would wake up screaming in terror. Throwing punches into his pillow, crying out for his brother. Italy would grab him; shake him 'till he woke. Germany's eyes would snap open, burning with the fires of the Holocaust. He'd fight the tears, clench his fists. The agony, regret, and pain reflected in his face, twisting and contorting his features. Italy would murmur to him in Italian, putting their foreheads together, forcing Germany to look at him.

The pain would slowly drain from his eyes in salty, warm tears that Italy gently kissed away.

"Sorry," Germany would say gruffly, burning red from embarrassment. Italy would only smile, drawing him into a hug.

"Nobody blames you," he'd lie. Of course, they all blamed him, however unfairly. They seemed to forget that a boss's words were like sweet wine, gentle and intoxicating, slipping down your throat and fogging your brain. They blamed Italy for Mussolini, Russia for Stalin, America for Bush, and Germany for Hitler.

Germany would smile at him, the forced upturning of his lips as fake as his belief in himself. He'd allow himself to be kissed, to be petted and comforted. He'd drop back to sleep with the wrinkles of his forehead a fraction relaxed. In his arms, he held Italy tightly; an almost desperate embrace. Strong arms pale against Italy's sun kissed back, Italy's auburn head, with that one wayward curl, tucked under his chin. They had each other, the familiar thud of two hearts beating together. That was all they needed, that was all that was certain.


End file.
